Promises Kept
by grannysknitting
Summary: When they were in hospital, Sherlock made a promise to himself. Now he's keeping it.


**Promises Kept (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

Set after 'Polygamous Marriage' but before 'Back in the Saddle'

_Dedicated to the person who asked (like John) – you still make my day!_

John stirred as the bedroom door opened, cracking his eyes open long enough to see that it was Sherlock, coming in to check on him once more. In the days since he'd come home from the hospital it had become quite routine for Sherlock to slip into the room to check on John while he dozed. The thin man hadn't been more than arms length from John the entire time he'd been in hospital: he would leave the room for short periods of time since they returned to Baker Street, but always edged back in again, a slightly anxious look in the back of his eyes.

John had become accustomed to the whole thing. He didn't mind that Sherlock had gotten into the habit of poking him with a finger in the hospital – his flatmate would even hold his hand from time to time – but once they returned home to wider beds, Sherlock had thought nothing of climbing in beside John and curling up to read the paper, share the laptop or watch telly. (They'd relocated the telly to John's room at Mrs Hudson's suggestion, though the doctor had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn't wanted to miss her soaps while she was sitting with him.)

Sherlock shut the door softly and John blinked at him, pushing up carefully in the bed to settle more comfortably in the pillows. He still had some difficulty breathing, and sleeping propped up a little eased that. It wasn't the most comfortable thing, though, as John had always preferred to lie on one side than on his back.

John looked at the instrument in Sherlock's hands – it was this that had caught his attention – and then up at his flatmate. He wasn't sure how to say to Sherlock that he really didn't want to listen to the usual scrapes and wails that the instrument produced when the two of them were in the same room. John knew that Sherlock could play properly – he'd heard it often enough when Sherlock was tucked away in his room, or John in his own – bot for some reason his flatmate only played like a lunatic when John was in the same room as him. He knew himself well enough to know that if Sherlock tried that now, there would be sharp words exchanged, if not thrown objects.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked and John gave an internal sigh of relief. Maybe he could get out of this without offending his roommate after all.

"A bit tired, really," the answer was not dishonest, which helped greatly, "I might go back to sleep if that's ok with you."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes lighting up a little, "I can help with that," he smiled and lifted the instrument to his shoulder, his eyes fixed intently on John's face. Sensing that there was more to the situation that apparently met the eye, John leaned back, keeping his own eyes on Sherlock. The consulting detective took a slow breath and straightened himself, raising the bow in a gentle arc and holding it poised above the strings for a long moment.

John didn't know a lot about classical music as written for the violin, but he had spotted sheet music about the flat, and over time he'd come to associate certain pieces with certain composers. Sherlock had his favourites of course, just as any musician would, but John recognised this piece as Sherlock's favourite above all others. It was the violin concerto by Mendelssohn, played with such ethereal beauty that John couldn't help but catch his breath as the first notes wavered their way into the air.

By the time Sherlock was halfway through the piece, John was fighting to keep his eyes open, mortified that he was meeting such skilled and passionate playing by falling asleep – even though that was what he'd said he was about to do. True, he'd had a hard time staying awake since he'd first woken in the hospital, which was a by product of his injuries and the drugs he was taking to manage the pain and stave off infection, but of all the times to fall asleep he couldn't have picked a worse one…

… or so he thought until he saw the triumphant pride in Sherlock's eyes. His flatmate had stated he wanted to help John go to sleep and apparently he'd been serious about it.

So John gave in, letting out the contented sigh that had been pressing at his lips and easing his head against the pillows gently, carried into the warmly waiting darkness on the tide of Sherlock's music.

END

Disclaimer – characters and setting as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine (such as it is!)


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